They finished their beers and glumly crossed the street to the hotel. Strangely, for a hotel, the front was mostly brick, a few closed wooden red doors. Cammy had seen more inviting industrial estates. There was a balcony that ringed the first floor, which seemed promising, and the there wasn’t anything particularly bad about the lobby either. The usual pokey machines, a couple of armchairs that could have been described as antique, vintage, or past-it, depending on where you bought them from, and the same mulleted, cut-offs, Blunnies and hi-viz vest-wearing construction worker drinking Crownies who seemed to come free with every bar in the country.

  The receptionist poured the construction worker another schooner from the single tap.

  “Be right with you,” she said.

  Although none of them wanted to be the person who said it aloud, lest the whole pretence of adventure, of backpacking round Australia, disintegrate, neither of the three could honestly say that this is where they wanted to be spending the next few months.

  “Welcome to the wettest town in the country,” said the receptionist. The name tag pinned to her red polo shirt said her name was Michelle.

  “Second wettest,” declared the burly man at the end of the bar.

  “Shut your yap, old man. Do they have a giant gumboot with a museum inside? Didn’t think so.”

  She turned her attention back to the guests.

  “How you guys doing? You alright?”

  “Yeah, just off the bus from—” Cammy started to say.

  “Here for the banana farms or just passing through?”

  “Bananas,” said Cammy.

  “So it’s fifty a night, a week upfront, plus a hundred bucks deposit.”

  “Each?” said Molly.

  “That’s for a triple.”

  “We’re not—”

  “Unless you’d prefer a private room, seventy-five.”

  “We’re sharing,” Molly pointed at Erin and back at ourselves. “He’s… I’m sorry. You don’t mind, do you? It’s just—”

  “Oh no, not all,” said Cammy, crestfallen. “I wouldn’t have—”

  “Might be I can put you in a double,” Michelle said to Cammy, “but if another single came along you’d need to share.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Uh, sure,” said Cammy, who was only half listening, trying to figure out how much this was going to cost him.

  “Five nights upfront, at fifty a night, is two-fifty, plus a hundred bucks deposit, is three-fifty each. You change your mind, we’ll refund you.”

  After six months in the country, Cammy had gotten used to the feeling of somebody else’s hand constantly being in his pocket, so was pleasantly surprised by the offer of a refund, even if that meant he was already thinking of leaving. Molly and Erin were having similar thoughts, each hoping that the other one would balk at the cost, change their mind aloud, all the while reaching into their bags for their purses, their credit cards, and handing them to Michelle.

  “Don’t worry,” said Michelle. “The pay is good on the banana farms. Hard work but good money.”

  “Have you ever done it?” said Molly.

  “Hell no.”

  The man at the end of the bar laughed then shook his empty glass at Michelle.

  “How might we get work on the farms?” asked Molly.

  “The buses pick up workers around five A.M. out front. Make yourself available. They need anyone, they’ll take you. If not, try again the next day.”

  “Easy as that, huh,” said Cammy.

  *

  Any trepidation they’d had upon entering the hotel only got worse when they saw the accommodation. The hallways weren’t too bad, like an old Western saloon crossed with a Catholic school residential retreat in dire need of a lick of paint but when they saw their room Erin said, “Nope. Can’t do it. I’m going home.” Then she started to cry.

  Molly felt the same way but, being older, had fallen into the same mothering role during their month in Sydney that she had at their old work, having to talk her friend down from whatever hysterical height she’d worked herself up into, smooth things over, be reasonable, even if, right now, that was the last thing she wanted to do. Upon seeing the rusted metal bunkbed, the thin, stained mattresses, the torn wallpaper and bare wooden floor, she wanted to take her stuff back down to the bus stop and wait right there for the next ride out of a town, refund be damned.

  “I’ll, eh, let you get settled in,” said Cammy, loitering in their doorway, and made his way down the hallway to his own room.

  Molly didn’t feel she had enough energy to manage Erin’s mood through this situation. She would need it all just to get herself through it. Even a month in Sydney, where all they’d done was lounge about on the beach all day and party at night, had tested their friendship. Part of it was age, Molly knew. Erin was only twenty-one, pursuing the young-person’s fantasy of a year in Oz, travelling and maybe meeting a sexy surfer, employment simply a means to get a Visa for a second-year in the country while they took their relationship to the next level. That the surfers were already up and out at sea six hours before Erin even got out of bed first thing in the afternoon, and only returned when it was dark to get drunk in the bar and stick their saltwater-ravaged genitals into misguided backpackers, meant that Molly had to guide her friend through the emotions of this experience as well, where fantasy met reality.

  “Listen,” said Molly, “it’s not that bad. We’ll barely be here. Just back to sleep.”

  “It’s minging,” said Erin.

  “I know,” said Molly.

  “It smells really bad.”

  “I know.”

  She opened the door onto the balcony.

  “And I don’t have any money left.”

  “I know.”

  Eleven years older than Erin, Molly had rented out her house to pay for the trip, which meant that she found herself paying for more than a reasonable share of things, having at least a little money coming from back home to top up her dwindling savings. She had sold her car too, while Erin had declared her’s off-road and left it in her dad’s driveway. Erin’s car had a pet name, a private reg; Molly’s was how she got to the airport where they worked.

  Erin wiped her eyes on the palm of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek.

  “Let’s give it the night, okay,” said Molly. “There’s a shop up the road. We’ll get a box of wine, something for dinner. Tomorrow we’ll see about getting work, if we want it. If we don’t, we’ll get a refund, take the bus up to Cairns. Okay?”

  “Wine sounds good.”

  There was a knock at the door. It was Cammy.

  “You two alright?”

  “Yeah,” said Molly. “Just having second thoughts. We’re alright.”

  Cammy, who’d had more than his share of second thoughts since setting foot in the country, sleeping off a looming panic-attack in more than one crowded and noisy hostel, could empathise.

  “There’s a shop up the road. Want to see about getting something to eat? Maybe something to drink.”

  They checked out the communal area downstairs, which didn’t help with Erin’s overwhelming desire to flee. The peeling tables and chairs weren’t the problem, nor was it the slim choice of mediocre DVDs to play on the tiny television, or even that the cooking area was just a couple of gas rings outside in the street where it had started to rain, but somebody had spilled milk in the fridge some time ago and hadn’t wiped it up, just left it to fester, yellowing and curdled, drying and smelling of vomit, if the person had eaten nothing except the stinkiest Camembert for the preceding twenty-fours before regurgitation. It oozed from beneath the closed fridge door, down the front of the freezer, and congealed in a puddle on the lumpy linoleum floor.

  “Oh Christ, that’s disgusting,” said Molly.

  “I don’t even want to look inside there,” said Cammy.

  “I am not eating here,” said Erin.